Audre Lorde

Inheritance Poem by Audre Lorde

I. My face resembles your faceless and less each day. When I was youngno one mistook whose child I was.Features build coloringalone among my creamy fine-boned sistersmarked me Byron's daughter.

No sun set when you died, but a dooropened onto my mother. After you leftshe grieved her crumpled world aloftan iron fist sweated with business symbolsa printed blotter dwell in the house of Lord'syour hollow voice changing down a hospital corridoryea, though I walk through the valleyof the shadow of deathI will fear no evil.

II.I rummage through the deaths you livedswaying on a bridge of question.At seven in Barbadosdropped into your unknown father's lifeyour courage vault from his tailor's tableback to the sea.Did the Grenada treeferns singyour 15th summer as you jumped shipto seek your motherfinding her too latesurrounded with new sons?

Who did you bury to become the enforcer of the lawthe handsome legendbefore whose raised arm even trees wepta man of deep and wordless passionwho wanted sons and got five girls?You left the first two scratching in a treefern's shadethe youngest is a renegade poetsearching for your answer in my blood.

My mother's Grenville talesspin through early summer evenings.But you refused to speak of homeof stepping proud Black and pennilessinto this land where only white menruled by money. How you laboredin the docks of the Hotel Astoryour bright wife a chambermaid upstairs welded love and survival to ambitionas the land of promise witheredcrashed the hotel closedand you peddle dawn-bought applesfrom a push-cart on Broadway.

Does an image of returnwealthy and triumphantwarm your chilblained fingersas you count coins in the Manhattan snowor is it only Lindawho dreams of home?

When my mother's first-born cries for milkin the brutal city winterdo the faces of your other daughters dimlike the image of the treeferned yardwhere a dark girl first cooked for youand her ash heap still smells of curry?

III.Did the secret of my sisters steal your tonguelike I stole money from your midnight pocketsstubborn and quakingas you threaten to shoot me if I am the one? The naked lightbulbs in our kitchen ceilingglint off your service revolveras you load whispering.

IV.You bought old books at auctionsfor my unlanguaged worldgave me your idols Marcus Garvey Citizen Kaneand morsels from your dinner platewhen I was seven.I owe you my Dahomeyan jawthe free high school for gifted girlsno one else thought I should attendand the darkness that we share.Our deepest bonds remainthe mirror and the gun.

V.An elderly Black judgeknown for his way with womenvisits this island where I liveshakes my hand, smiling.'I knew your father,' he says'quite a man!' Smiles again.I flinch at his raised eyebrow.A long-gone woman's voicelashes out at me in parting'You will never be satisfieduntil you have the whole worldin your bed!'

Now I am older than you were when you diedoverwork and silence exploding your brain.You are gradually receding from my face.Who were you outside the 23rd Psalm?Knowing so littlehow did I become so muchlike you?

Your hunger for rectitudeblossoms into ragethe hot tears of mourningnever shed for you beforeyour twisted measurementsthe agony of denialthe power of unshared secrets.